By Proxy
by Vanessa S. Quest
Summary: Direct continuation of Half Life. Next story out soon, I promise.


Reid had spent the past two days in his apartment, with a few exceptions of brief trips to the book store and most local grocery-mart he could find, after spending a full twenty-four hours in the hospital, he was discharged and granted two additional days of sick-leave, with hazard pay apparently. He wasn't quite sure how getting himself poisoned by the unsub before even knowing about the unsub counted as a hazard pay, but he'd take it.

According to the conversation he had with SSA Rossi over the phone, Mrs. Baton confessed fully, apparently she had gotten the idea after reading the warning labels off of her prescription, and saved up her daily pills by switching for an OTC remedy. In total, four of the eight men wound up inevitably dying from the drug, one still remained in coma, and the remainders were discharged the same day as Spencer was. Hotch conducted the interviews but later explained that the most credible of the witness statements were his own, the man who had entered delirium apparently left a part of himself there, and the other victim couldn't pick her out of a line-up. He steeled himself for an unlikely trial, but knew it was more likely to get pled out, she gave a full confession and was cooperating. Minus the mitigating circumstances for the case against her husband, she was willing to take responsibility for the other victims. It amazed him what people were capable of in the name of jealousy and love.

He wasn't sure which she fell more into.

While Spencer was at home recovering, the rest of the team, sans Garcia, had boarded a flight to Illinois. A race-motivated killer was going on a spree. The case was reminiscent of the Alabama church bombings during the 1960s, with key differences that they did not stick directly to religious centers but also attacked public projects including Youth Organizations. So far they had been lucky that the tally was as low as it had been, but it was still hard to admit that to anyone who lost a loved-one in such a violent way.

As it were, Reid pulled out several reference books from his messenger bag, the thought struck him that normally the FBI puts traces on people who buy the very same books he had just purchased. One of the books he had managed to find on the shelf was the Turner Diaries, a particularly dark and militant book about the war of the races. He also had purchased a translated copy of Mein Kampf 2. As if the original wasn't bad enough, the officers that had followed under Hitler had wrote a second book to capitalize on the propaganda.

As he read through the material he mentally flagged several sections of it, namely on the militant tactics and how the fringe group rationalized their actions via quotes from the Constitution. Funny, when he had read it he never caught the line that mentioned dragging people out of their homes or blowing up key structures within a community.

-----

The next day when Reid returned to the BAU he was greeted by Garcia, "Oh my poor baby, are you okay?" Her voice was sickly sweet, dripping with her concerns.

"Garcia, I'm fine. Apparently, antihistamines have some of the least long-term effects if you survive an overdose. It's actually rather remarkable that I am as fine as that… if she had used Tylenol, for example, I could have had liver failure--"

"Shh, shh, shh! Don't even talk like that!" She smiled, "Right, I have to get back to the files, the others have me looking up the local hate-groups, they don't think it was a member of any of the groups, but actually a follower who is interested in the ideals."

"Ever since group liability was introduced for crimes that violate a person's civil-rights, and the potential civil-suits that can result… most of these groups advocate for violence via suggestive readings, and let the target audience draw their own conclusions…"

"…Yeah, but they think that whoever this is might have gone to a meeting or looked at their websites frequently to get worked up to this point." Garcia clarified.

"I'm just going to set this down and then I'll see what you've got so far, if you don't mind…"

"Of course I don't mind, stop by any time. Oh I'm so glad you're okay, Reid." She smiled before turning back to her office, piling into the work.

Reid made his way to his desk to find a file brimming with photos with a post-it note stuck on front, neatly labeled: Welcome Back, glad you're ok.

He smiled and then flipped open the file, the smile gone before his eyes locked on the first bit of text. For the next ten minutes he began reading through the fifty pages of text and crime-scene photos.

-----

The team found themselves on a plot of subsidized farm-land, government-paid for it to just grow out into woods, a barn in the middle of several sprouted trees that were anywhere from ten to fifteen years old. JJ and Hotchner were on the front-line, Morgan and Prentiss pouring over the group rosters Garcia had managed to decode from the websites, going through the police files to look for any connection of 'witnesses' and home-grown terrorists. So far, in the sleepy suburb outside of Chicago, no names were matching up. Whoever did this was careful to be sure it wouldn't tie back to his friends. Too bad that wasn't the only thing the unsub had been careful about.

As far as materials go, the bombs were all a variety of pipe-bomb, the mark of a novice, at that. The accelerant was usually gasoline, but in two of the bombs, kerosene. The pipes were old, rusted and weak, made out of household components which suggested access to either an old home, a scrap yard, or to renovation sites. The shrapnel was packed in to inflict maximal damage, including lighter projectiles such as broken glass, medium-grade washers, and heavy-grade screws, all materials that are standard equipped it many houses, scrap-yards, and renovation sites. However, the most complicated component, the detonator, was made out of electrician's wire, and not the kind made standard in old homes. This suggested it was either coming from a reworks project, or a scrap-yard—more likely the former, after all, Garcia had yet to flush out any red-flag sale items in the local hardware stores. So far, the bomber had struck four times, the first bombing occurred three weeks ago, the second, a week ago, the third, three days ago, and the fourth, just the two days after. It was a bad sign, the bombings were getting closer and closer, he would either try to escalate to a larger bomb or a larger target at this point.

No one wanted to see that happen, but it felt inevitable, as Hotch and JJ entered the barn they discovered it was a meeting-ground for a semi-militant group, however, it seemed abandoned, untouched for months, cobwebs over the stacked chairs and a fine layer of dust settled on the equipment.

JJ's eyes fixed on a newspaper article, cut out and made prominent. She holstered her pistol and approached it carefully. It was a familiar surname, but not one of the members. The article was about the death of a local woman.

"Hotch, what do you make of this?" She handed him the paper, "Look at the date, it's from last month. Nothing else seems moved, but they deliberately put this here, displaying it."

"This might be the trigger…" He began reading the article, it didn't give any indications about suspects, if anything it suggested an accidental cause of death.

JJ pulled out her phone, calling Garcia. "Garcia, it's JJ here, I need you to pull the case file of Bernadette Orleans."

"Do you think it's related?" She asked, she entered the data inside a small white screen, "Bernadette Orleans, died last month from asphyxia, it looks like she choked to death on her blood waiting for the EMS to respond, she died outside of town-limits and the ambulance logs showed that they were backlogged with calls from five other areas… oh this isn't good. I'm pulling up those calls, you're not going to believe it…"

"They match up with the bombing locations, don't they?" JJ presumed.

"Right you are. One was a broken leg, another was a severe asthma attack, there's one from an allergic reaction… and another car accident. Each place someone called in from, kaboom." Reid looked over Garcia's shoulder.

"That's not entirely true. The case of the severe asthma attack, that occurred at a private residence, the child is a Hispanic male, he also died… no bomb went off there, and that was the second call… Garcia, can you tell which ambulance company these calls were routed to, and which hospitals are in their triage?" He glanced over at the flamboyant blond.

"You think he's going to go to the source next?"

"Well, I don't think he's going to target the boy's family, he seems to have intricate knowledge about these cases, so far he's targeted people who he blames for the death of this Bernadette, not the victims of the accidents but the callers. According to this report, the boy was alone when he began having the attack and dialed 911 himself, there's no one there for him TO blame. If he's out of callers, he might move on to dispatchers, or EMS first-responders."

"I just pulled up the hospital records, get this…" Garcia began, "They were all taken into the city-limits, to various hospitals around the Chicago area. They don't have a rural hospital."

Reid bit his lip as he glanced at the map of targets, "I don't think he'll target the hospital, she died before the ambulance got to her, I don't think he'd blame the hospitals. Where do they dispatch from?"

"The local sheriff's office." Hotch answered, JJ nodded, "The last bomb went off yesterday, now he's either becoming more savvy with making these bombs or he's making one now, we have less than 24 hours to determine where he is before the next one goes off. Reid, Garcia, good work. Keep working this angle, try to prioritize the targets…"

"Hotch… one more thing… I was looking at the bomb fragments, the tool marks, they aren't from standard pliers. The grooves are too deep, it looks more like clamp impressions."

"Right, a clamp."

"You're looking into Construction sites, right? But with his inside knowledge, he most likely isn't a Construction worker, he's more likely a tradesman, but one that has access to sensitive information. He might be a volunteer firefighter, or someone who you wouldn't suspect if he came to those areas."

"I'll have the team look into it. We have to get back to the sheriff's office."

JJ disconnected from speaker-phone before hanging up. "We should also talk to her parents, whoever this person is, she meant something to him. Maybe her family knows who he is."

"I don't know how willing they will be to cooperate with us, after all, they are members of an exclusive club." He eyed around the room suggestively.

"True, but this is a small area, maybe her neighbors know someone matching this description."

-----

Agents Morgan, Prentiss and Rossi were pouring over personnel files.

"So we have targets that are both racially motivated and personally motivated. The way this is accelerating, he's got to be devolving, he's getting sloppier. Look at how the last two bombs were made, he's rushing, in the last one he used too much fluid in the combustion chamber, it hampered the explosion, the one before that he packed in too much light-weight shrapnel, the injuries were minor." Morgan poured over the remade bombs.

"I don't know, he might be trying to improve their design… But with so little time in between he can't be sure if it's working."

"If he's trying to gear it up, he'd have to have a bigger target in mind, either way it seems he's becoming ambitious." Morgan countered.

"What we know so far, the unsub is comfortable with procuring bomb components and doesn't think anyone would question him about it. He has trade-skills, works with his hands and is holding a grudge. The first bomb took him one week to make before he used it, the second bomb took two weeks. The bombs were virtually identical. That has to tell us something. Why would it take him longer the second time around than the first?"

"…If he was arrested in something unrelated. Out of town. Injured, maybe?" Prentiss volunteered. "I'll start pulling arrest files."

Morgan leaned forward in the chair, "I don't get it, if he has a mission, why would he let anything get in the way of it? It would have to be something really important. Wait a second, when was the funeral? Bernadette Orleans'es funeral wasn't right away, was it? They did an autopsy, didn't they?"

Rossi pulled out a small file, the police report about the accident, it indicated the body was released the day after the first bomb. "They did… Let's see, the body wasn't released to the parents either. She was released to her fiancé, a Travis Portman."

One of the officers approached, "Travis Portman? He's one of the mechanics for the firehouse. He volunteers there, too."

"He works at the firehouse?" Hotchner asked, entering the room, JJ behind him. "We just got back from canvassing her neighborhood, this Travis Portman, he's about 6'3", big build, has red hair…?"

"That's him alright." The officer mentioned, heading to their desk. "I went on a call with him once, he said some off-color joke, made me real uncomfortable… something about not knowing when you burn a blacky… something horrible like that." He pulled out a roster sheet, "But he never misses a call."

"…That's how he knows what the results of the new bomb are. He _is_ experimenting." Rossi ventured.

"Methodical, vindictive, and asocial, do you have his number in there?" Morgan asked, eying the officer.

"Yeah, I'm looking it up. He usually works on Fridays, then he'll drink his way through most weekends. Got it, so what should we do?"

"We need to run a call through the dispatchers, get him out of wherever he's making this thing. How well do you know Travis?"

"I've been over his place a few times. It's a decent place, he keeps it neat."

"What about his workshop? Have you ever seen it?" Hotch closed in.

"He doesn't have one, he works at the station…"

"…That wouldn't have the privacy he needs for something like this."

"Well, it depends if he's using the new one or the old one. They're renovating the old firehouse from the 1950's, the boys have been temporarily stationed in a mechanic shop 'til the job's done, but he's not usually at the station with the others. He usually works on the old fire-trucks, getting them back up to specs, it's actually his shop that they're using for the temporary firehouse."

"That means he's most likely making the bombs there. We need to call in a bomb-unit, make sure there aren't any traps set. We'll have the dispatcher make the announcement, tell him there's a brush-fire, that will get him out of the limits and away from any civilians." Hotch offered. "We'll split the team in two, Morgan, you have bomb-squad experience, I want you to help out there… if we have a bomb with his fingerprints all over it, he won't be walking free for a long time. JJ, head out with Morgan. Prentiss, Rossi, you're with me."

"Hotch… this isn't because I'm black, right?" Morgan said, giving him a very leveled look.

"No, Morgan, it's not. The unsub may have a very strict preference, but he doesn't miss any calls. The point is, your skills are better utilized with the bomb squad, JJ, I want you to handle the media. No doubt they'll come out of the wood-work once they see the bomb-squad pull up. I want this to go down clean and without injury. Does everyone understand?" Somewhere in the middle of his address, Hotch stopped looking directly at Morgan and began briefing the troops.

-----

As bomb-squad suited up, Morgan pulled up the blast-resistant materials, "From all the bombs we've analyzed, this unsub has a clear tripping mechanism. The wires are attached to a power-source he can signal with a call. The easiest way to diffuse the bomb will be to remove the wires from the chamber. As long as the bomb can't spark, it won't explode. This is a rudimentary bomb, so you need to handle it very carefully. More sophisticated bomb-makers usually keep the bombs safely disarmed until they are ready to use them. This will not be the case with this unsub. He is not familiar enough with the technology to take these safety measures. Any questions?" Morgan explained, asked.

"How do we know he doesn't already have it armed, or that he won't take it with him?"

"We have to trust that he doesn't see this coming." Morgan elaborated. He and JJ loaded into an SUV while the bomb squad loaded into their vehicles. "We'll move in after we have confirmation that he has left the city limits. You dig?"

JJ dialed the dispatcher, "Ready, make the call."

Over the short-wave radios, a female officer began relaying the message, "Attention all fire units, we have reports of a brush fire outside of Mayer's Farm, east half a mile…"

"Copy that Margy, this is Travis, I'm on route."

"Be careful out there Travis." She said, kindly, playing the part. "There's a police unit on scene, they think it might be arson."

-----

Morgan entered the old firehouse, blast shield in front of him as he and the bomb squad searched for the device.

"Agent Morgan, over here!" One of the younger officers called out, his green eyes locked on the device as the others moved in.

"Keep sweeping the perimeter, we don't know if he's made any additional bombs or if this is the only one here." Morgan explained, approaching the located device. "Good, good, it looks like he hasn't completed this one. Right now it's a partial construct, he hasn't added the fuse yet. This one's safe." Morgan said after working on the bomb, analyzing it.

The leader of the bomb squad approached him, "Bag and tag it, the rest of this place is clear."

"Alright. Make sure you get any and all components and potential components cataloged too." Morgan reminded the younger officer. "You did a good job. Did the press show up?"

"Yeah, the local news." One of the street cops mentioned, "Is the building all clear?"

"Yeah," was quickly messaged through the ranks. "Any word from the others?"

"The hit went down smooth. He's in custody now."

-----

The team remerged at the sheriff's office, each being congratulated and thanked for their roles as Travis Portman was led past them and into interrogation. JJ buzzed about, managing the press coverage as the liaison for the FBI, the sheriff also crediting his capable men and women, declaring the day a success for civil justices.

Agents Hotchner and Rossi said nothing while Morgan exchanged glances with several of the officers, he knew it was a sham. He knew it didn't change how some of the members of that very community didn't care at all that it was done, but he knew where to pick and choose his battles. The media coverage would inspire others, let them feel better and safer, and that itself was the success… not the arrest of a bigot bomber.

Gear packed, they loaded into the jet, the mid-afternoon in full swing. The agents each went back into their own worlds, getting ready for the next case, trying to push past the last. Morgan listened to his MP3 player, JJ read a few case reports, Prentiss read a novel while Rossi and Hotchner quietly discussed details about prosecution. By time the plane landed, it was end of day for business. Each member opted to head back to the office, each for different pretexts, but it was clear they each had wanted to welcome back one of their own.

Prentiss and Morgan entered the BAU, wheeling and toting their carry-on bag respectively. Talking between themselves they spotted Garcia and Reid lingering on the main floor.

"So how did it go?" Reid asked, his voice cheerful to see everyone back and in good spirits.

"With the A team, how do you think it went?" Morgan boasted, "I know you hate to have to sit things out, but we can take care of ourselves."

"Good call on him being a volunteer firefighter, you were spot on with that, Reid." Prentiss said, nudging Morgan.

JJ stopped in briefly, returning files to her desk before she gave Reid a polite hug, "Spence, how've you been holding up these past few days?"

"I'm doing alright. The doctors gave me a clean bill of health…" He mentioned off handedly, he glanced back at the file at his desk and then back in time to see Rossi and Hotch enter. Rossi extended a knowing gaze, one of brief recognition to the other, but not sloppy enough to get sucked into the buzzing commotion around them.

Saying their adieus, the others filed out, Garcia convincing Morgan and Prentiss to go out for a few rounds of responsible karaoke and drinking. Reid had managed to slip past them, during the miniature ordeal, pretty sure he did not want to sing anything by Britney Spears or Aqua at the moment. He picked up the file, walked to Hotch's door and knocked twice before hearing a resound, "Its open."

"I, uh, saw your note." Reid rocked back and forth on his heels, "I guess it's my turn to say it. Welcome back."

"Glad to be back." He looked up from his desk to meet eyes with Reid, "…How are you…"

"Good… good." Reid and Hotch continued the conversation of fragmented sentences.

"Good." Hotch replied, "Would you like to get a drink?"

"That would be… nice." Reid affirmed. "No karaoke though."

"…Garcia?" Hotch probed, he had an idea. Reid just nodded to confirm. "Deal."

-----

Inside a dimly lit bar, largely decorated with wooden paneling, Reid took another few swigs at his drink. It was on the rocks, and high enough proof to set something on fire if given a chance, but Hotch had to admit that he missed what Reid had said it was. It could have been rum or vodka, or maybe even a mixed drink, but it seemed to be doing the trick as Reid continued with a card-trick.

"Pick a card… any card." Reid slid the cards out on the table, face down, waiting for Hotch to oblige.

Hotch looked at the cards, "Spence, this is the last time…" He drew a card peaked at it and then put it back in. They would have to rein in the night, it was getting late and Reid wasn't getting any more sober.

Reid pulled out the two of hearts, pressing it to his lips, in a charismatic gesture of a person plastered, "Is _this_ your card…"

Hotch knew it wasn't his card, but at the moment a different sentence fell from his mouth, "Would you like to--?"

"Yes."

-----

From there, Hotch didn't know how he managed to get Reid into a cab and back to his place, let alone why they had both gone back to his place, or what he was possibly thinking for that matter. A perfectly rational, sober Hotch would not have done the same things as this form was so readily doing…

…And he wasn't sure if a more pliable, drunken Reid was the best of company in this current state, and yet, all roads led to roam, to roam the fabrics of each other's shirts, to roam the clumsy set of moist kisses, by time Reid looked fully contented they had managed to slam into each wall on the way to his bedroom.

The pair fell to the bed in a less than graceful dip, legs tangled in a mass, Reid's eyes were hazy, dazed with alcohol and confused. Had Hotchner taken the time to take in that sight he knew he would have stopped, but he hadn't noticed, and instead he pressed on, surpassing the comfort level of the other. Neither stops it, when lips meet again, neither pulls away for longer than what was necessary to take in a gasp of air and by time it was finished, when both began to come back to their senses, they were naked under the covers, the deed done, twice in a row, both panting, exhausted.

Hotch hadn't said anything, and neither did Reid. Hotch, however, did manage to sleep contentedly with his arm draping Reid's shoulder, but in his sleep he managed to roll at one point, losing the constant contact.

By 4AM, Spencer Reid's eyes opened, abruptly as if the spirits of liquor and dreams had been exorcised, he sat up and quickly assessed the situation.

He was in a room, no his own, naked, sticky from sex. With his boss right next to him. Spencer Reid, aged 28 had committed the cardinal sin of sleeping with his boss. The weight of that realization, that he had done so in a drunken frenzy, as had Aaron Hotchner, for that matter, Reid quickly hopped along the floor, swooping in on pieces of his clothing, collecting them all before going to the bathroom and quickly rinsing himself then redressing.

As the door to the apartment opened and then creaked closed, Hotchner's hand explored the space of his bed that was riddled with a heat-signature, finding no body there, Hotchner's eyes opened, when he heard the click of his front door shutting, he sat up, quickly brought fully awake. His eyes shifted across the room, Reid's belongings were gone, the clock read a clear 4:12, the unsettling signs that he had overlooked suddenly began crashing into his memory.

"What have I done?"

-----

The weekend had crawled for SSA Aaron Hotchner, without a good, proper excuse to call his subordinate, he felt he didn't have the right to do so, as such time just dragged. By Monday he was certain he was going to go insane if he didn't find something to focus on besides the ramifications that occur when two people become plastered and unsupervised.

He had recalled two important facts about that Friday, fact one- Spencer had enjoyed making out, face two- he had also looked panicked when things had escalated. It was easy to deduce from that that he had gone too far, pushed him too quick, and that Spencer had panicked and left after the fact.

Arriving in the office two hours earlier than what business-hours dictated wasn't completely uncharacteristic for SSA Aaron Hotchner, nor was it uncommon for him to dive into cases set out on his desk upon those such occasions, however, when a knock came at the door something rare did happen for two hours before start of day… SSA Dr. Spencer Reid walked into the room and closed the door.

"We should talk." Reid started, then fumbled for a good three minutes in silence.

"What we did on Friday…" Hotch picked up the slack, after all, he had initiated. It had become his responsibility to continue the awkward conversation.

"What DID we do on Friday!" Reid said, his voice unhinged, "We can't do something like that…" Reid's arms quickly expanded from his sides, he seemed frazzled, flustered.

"…I apologize for –taking advantage of the situation." Hotch's voice was smooth, even as he tried to reel in the excess of emotions coming from Reid.

"Taking advantage?" Reid questioned, "I should be apologizing for that, I was drunk… I didn't think about what I was doing, but what we did… no, what I did, it can't be something that happens again. I mean, we just risked our careers because we both got drunk and had wild sex."

Hotch didn't care to correct Reid that he had not been drunk, but was quite content with the accurate description of the sex.

"To risk it on a whim…"

"Reid, what if I told you it wasn't on a whim?" Hotch rebuked, "Not for me, at least."

"That makes it even worse!" Reid said, not fully taking in the statement, "A one-night stand we could probably get some leniency over… well, at least I could… you could lose your job, why aren't you more stressed out by this?"

"I don't think you'd tell, and I'm not about to offer up a letter of resignation…" Hotch cut himself off.

"…This isn't something that can happen again, the team needs you. If I…"

"Reid, the team needs US, both of us. I'm sorry if you felt coerced, but I swear I didn't mean to do such a thing."

"…I wasn't coerced, I enjoyed what we did, and I take equal responsibility for my actions…" Reid said, still lost in the idea of trying to find a different line of work, profiling was all he was geared for.

"If you didn't feel coerced, why did you leave?" Hotch probed.

"What are you talking about? Think about what you're saying… Hotch, if I stayed that would mean that this is something real… something happening, and that can't happen. I can't let you risk your career over something like this…"

"…Does the idea of being with me make you unhappy?" Hotch felt vaguely confused, as if this argument had turned from one of realism to idealism, or more accurately like a debate between the ego and the super-ego.

"Of course not, Friday was… magical… amazing."

"Do you not want to be with me?" Hotch offered again to get to the succinct point.

"No, I mean yes, yes I do but no we can't." Reid floundered.

"And why is that?"

"…I… I need time to think about this. YOU need time to think about this, we can't just proceed in such a dangerous game if we aren't both dead serious about this. The BAU… this means everything to me…" He looked down, "And you're an important part of that, to me too." Reid's hand went to his head, he noticed he felt warm, attributed it to not sleeping last night, and then empirically ignored it.

"Reid, Spencer… just tell me one thing, do you WANT this to end?"

At the edges of his eyes, Reid felt beads of moisture rile up, trembling as an aftermath of the adrenalin, he confirmed meekly, "No, I don't. But I don't know what else to do…" He watched the corner of Hotch's desk, unable to meet eyes with the other man.

"I'll wait until you DO know what to do. Reid, Friday wasn't a whim to me, and I don't think it was to you either. I may have made the mistake of pushing you before you were emotionally ready for such a thing, but believe me when I say there was no mistake in having those feelings for you, so I'll wait until you are ready."

"…Thanks." He took a few calming breaths, managing to somehow detach himself, compartmentalize it, "It's really early. I'm going to get some coffee. Do you want me to get you one?"

Hotch smiled briefly before letting his normal stern expression cross over his face, he knew if this were going to happen, like he strongly suspected it would, that he would have to walk a very fine line. After all, a room full of the Nation's best profilers wasn't exactly the easiest room to keep secrets from.

TBC.


End file.
